


monument

by moonteeth



Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: Gen, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 03:53:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13227543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonteeth/pseuds/moonteeth
Summary: Two doomed boys, some hot cocoa, and a conversation on Christmas Eve.D.Gray-Man Secret Santa written for mildkat, who requested more Crow content!





	monument

 

 

There was a Christmas tree outside the Central Headquarter's chapel.

It was a lovely tree, really; big and robust and pleasant-smelling. Glossy green leaves hung lank across each thick bough, weighed down by old beaded wreaths; the whole image was set off nicely by the evening star, painted with thick, slapdash strokes of yellow paint. It emitted a faint, almost eerie glow in the evening light; no real replacement for the light of heaven, but for this purpose, close enough.

It was on his way back from the evening's mass that Tokusa found himself distracted by it. Stalling on the last step down from the chapel doors, he reached out for it without thinking. His fingers ran over the prickly little spines _._ They caught against his skin, both sharp and inexplicably soft, like the matted, bristled fur of a wild animal.

It was Tokusa's seventeenth Christmas.

He'd never been in a house with a Christmas tree before.

He used to see them in the windows sometimes, feathered with wiry silver tinsels and bright baubles. Sometimes, there would be children decorating them, or nestled around them, their parents close behind. It was a tradition, he'd been told. Something that was meant to be shared by a family.

He pulled his hand away, slowly, carefully. His fingers ghosted in the air.

Tradition wasn't really something that interested him. But family he understood.

Family was everything.

“There you are.”

Tokusa's lifted his head. Madarao had rounded the corner ahead of him, placid eyes touched by the barest note of pleasure. He had dressed down into a pair of plain white sleep pants, matched haphazardly with a beat-up old training shirt. The effect was somewhat pleasant; he looked rumpled, like he was about to head to sleep. He was holding a pair of mugs, carefully balanced in each hand. Tokusa offered him a smile.

“Looking for me, were you?” He said. He placed one hand over his heart, mock-touched. “How thoughtful of you. I'm _moved_.”

Madarao went ahead and ignored Tokusa, as he tended to do.

(Really, Tokusa couldn't fault him for it.)

“Were you admiring the tree?”

“Me? Yeah. It's a nice tree,” Tokusa offered. He pointed to one of the gingerbread men dangling from the lowest bough; this one conspicuously missing a leg. “Check it out. Someone got hungry.”

“Probably Kiredori,” Madarao answered immediately, and Tokusa grinned. Just then, Madarao's brows creased into a frown. “Hey, you look a little – hm.”

Tokusa blinked. Once. Twice.

Then he remembered the bruises.

“I was training with your sister this morning,” he explained, lifting his chin to expose the sickly yellow bruises that scored his jawline. He was a little shocked at having forgotten them – but then again, as a Crow, he was always getting banged up in one way or another. This particular injury just happened to be a little more evident. “Nasty little thing, right? I keep telling her not to go for the face. I mean, where would we be without my good looks?”

The soft line of Madarao's mouth curved into a rare, rueful smile, narrow eyes sparkling like two black stars.

“She's thirteen,” he pointed out, infuriatingly level. Tokusa scoffed, turning his face back into his palm as he probed the bruises himself.

“Well, she fights _dirty_ ,” he protested, voice muffled by his hand. Madarao's smile fell away, but the brightness of his eyes didn't fade. Not for a minute. It was strange, how much Madarao was able to express while still remaining so infuriatingly, impossibly impassive. Or perhaps it was just a mark of how well Tokusa had come to know him.

“You got beat up. By a thirteen year old,” Madarao said blankly. Tokusa sniffed, sinking down to sit on the edge of the steps.

“Even a thirteen year-old Crow is a force to be reckoned with,” he argued, shifting his posture to rest his elbows against his knees. “An elite.”

“For someone so clever, you're sort of an idiot,” Madarao said, taking a few measured steps closer, like he was approaching a frightened animal. Not that Tokusa was frightened. No way. But he was a little wounded; both literally and metaphorically. He spread his knees over the steps and ran a hand down his face, a derisive little laugh escaping him without consent. “God's perfect fool.”

In a sage, almost distracted voice, he said, “Hush. I’m a student and a teacher of many crafts.”

Madarao stopped at the steps, then bent down to sit next to Tokusa.

“Mm. Whatever you say.”

Tokusa pointed towards the second mug Madarao was holding, clenched in his left hand. This one as still full, some dark, warm liquid within lapping up against the sides and threatening to spill. Curls of hot steam traveled up between them, hot and damp and sweet-smelling.

“Is that for me?”

Madarao's eyes flickered down, unembarrassed.

“It could be.”

“I'll just go ahead take that as a yes,” Tokusa interpreted. He flashed Madarao a sly smile, reaching to take the second cup from Madarao with both hands. Madarao didn't protest, didn't say anything. Just kept looking at Tokusa, his eyes a fleeting kindness.

Tokusa brought his lips to the rim and drank deeply, an effulgent warmth spreading from his head to his toes.

It was pretty good. Not the best cocoa Tokusa had ever had, no. That honour belonged to Link. His cocoa was dark and rich and creamy, shot through with vanilla and cinnamon spice. Everything Link made was better. That was the problem with Link. And now he was gone. Boarded a train to God-knows-where in the middle of the night, off being perfect and fussy and stern-browed for someone else.

Tokusa blew on the surface of his cocoa and took another small sip. Link's presence seemed to hang between them, like he was swinging from a noose. Neither of them said anything. Neither of them would. They hadn't talked about Link yet, and maybe never would. They didn't know how.

“You're staring,” Tokusa said against the brim of his mug, just as the prickle of Madarao's heavy-lidded gaze was roiling to a burn. Painful. At the sound of Tokusa's voice, Madarao's brows creased into the most fleeting of frowns. He hunched forwards, long, muscled arms draped over the slope of his knees.

“I'm observing.”

His voice was completely neutral, as if bored. Tokusa pulled his own body up tight and made a face.

“ _Creep_. Go observe something else.”

Madarao didn't laugh. He didn't leave either, though. Just hunkered forwards, eyes bearing into Tokusa. Tokusa busied himself with his cocoa. His fingernails skittered over the white enamel, taptaptap, nervous sound, the sharpness of him just shivering on and on and on.

“You came back with bruises last week as well,” Madarao said. His voice was level, still strangely empty of emotion. “After your mission. The one in Copenhagen.”

That he had. They'd scorched a blue-burning path up his side from his waist to his ribs; the ugly, mottled result of a nasty collision with the side of a building. Urban fighting had never been Tokusa's specialty, after all. He resisted the urge to reach over to his own side and press his fingers down deep into the still-tender flesh. Instead, he just sipped at his drink. He was still smiling, but now, the smile was turning nasty. Turning strange.

“Nasty business, certainly, but Copenhagen went well,” he said, lifting his chin to meet his brother's eye. “I did well. And what I did was important. It was _necessary_.” There was something beautiful in that, in that word. Necessary. His throat burned; he wanted to say it again. He wanted to sing it, shout it; he wanted to be baptized in it. “Bloody, but _necessary_. Shame how that sometimes works. Don't you agree?”

Madarao's mouth twitched. His broad, masculine hands curled up into lazy fists over his thigh.

“Was it difficult?”

It had been. Too difficult. He'd spent the better part of his week in Copenhagen limping about pathetically like a broken hound; limbs all astray, licking his wounds.

“It was bearable,” Tokusa said. He laughed. He'd had a nice laugh, once. It wasn't very nice anymore. “Nothing I couldn't handle.”

“How... many people did you kill?”

Four. The answer was four.

“As many as I needed to,” he said instead. He lifted his mug to his lips once more – only to realize it was already empty. Funny thing. He set it down on the steps gently. “Are we really talking about this? Right now? It's Christmas Eve. I don't mean to completely _shock_ you, Madarao, but murder isn't typically considered holiday-appropriate conversation fodder.”

“I'm trying to look out for you,” Madarao said.

There was a flicker of life in his shiny, stone-black eyes. It wasn't a spark, not quite; more like a ripple of light across water. A wan sunrise over a cold delta. Tokusa was reminded, then, of a boy he once knew. The boy Madarao had once been, the strong, starving-wolf boy who'd roamed the streets with Link and Tokusa and little Tewaku and a hunger to consume the world.

“Yes, yes,” Tokusa sighed. “I get it. No need to be so dramatic. It doesn't suit you.” He prodded at his jaw again with one finger. “Christmas is just another day to me, anyways.”

Madarao's lips twitched. It was a barely noticeable thing, true, but Tokusa had caught it all the same.

_(I remember when you used to smile.)_

“Perhaps you should reconsider that stance, as a member of the church.”

“We're fighters, not priests,” Tokusa pointed out. He felt a wave of bitter resentment roll over him. He folded his arms, continuing with a lofty tone that didn't quite mask his sullenness, “And we're not _exorcists_.”

The crow's feet around Madarao's eyes deepened.

“But our duties...”

“... Are still holy,” Tokusa said. He let out a hard breath, casting his eyes up towards the ceiling. “God's work. I know.”

_(Come on, Madarao. How long are we gonna keep telling ourselves that?)_

There was a pause.

“You don't even care, do you?” Tokusa asked, eyes still cast to the heavens, to the paper-white stucco ceiling shielding them from the snow and dark outside. The way he said it, it wasn't a plea; rather, a statement disguised as a question. “That I killed people. That we kill people. It doesn't bother you at all.”

He lowered his eyes to meet Madarao's once more; even now, he was perfectly still, as unalterably stone-faced as Tokusa knew him to be – but something in his jaw has tightened. Tokusa watched his throat work with a detached, wondering curiosity.

“It doesn't.”

Tokusa was struck with the mad urge to laugh.

“It doesn't? Even though -”

“ _Tokusa._ ” Madarao's voice sliced through the air, sharp as a knife. Another killing thing. “I don't want to talk about this right now.”

A beat of silence; the breath and music of darkness.

“Thanks for the cocoa,” Tokusa said. He rose to his feet, hands clapped over his thighs. Madarao watched him, always fucking watching, but never saying anything -

"My pleasure."

The usual curtness had returned to his voice; a curtain thrown over his kindness. It reminded Tokusa a little of Link. He hated it, hated the world, hated everything with a blind, contemptuous force.

_(Brother, brother, we've made a terrible mistake, haven't we?)_

"I'll be back in my quarters," he said heavily. "You have a merry Christmas."

"Likeside," Madarao said, voice low and steely.

Tokusa turned on his heels and headed down the hall, tongue still heavy with the filmy remains of Madarao's cocoa, heart burning. The sound of his footsteps echoed down through the building; an empty, hollow sound that seemed to reach the very ends of the universe.

Madarao didn't follow him.

(With all his heart, Tokusa wished he would.)

 

**Author's Note:**

> this is a touch late, sorry! 
> 
> fuckhowardlink @ twitter


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